Neither of them replied.
Hunter slowed his pace and with a surprised look glanced over his shoulder. He was just in time to catch their backs as they were leaving the building. Shrugging his shoulders at their lack of response, speculating that they were rushing off to a call, and therefore focussed upon that, he continued on up the stairwell. At the top he caught the sound of a raised voice back along the corridor. It was Detective Superintendent Leggate in her office. She sounded angry. Swear words littered her tirade. He slowed his pace and tried to determine if he could pick out anyone else’s voice. He couldn’t. He smiled to himself. She was either tearing someone off a strip in her office, who dare not reply, or she was on the phone. Suddenly, he remembered his own rollicking from her four days earlier. He held that thought as he entered the department.
Grace was at her desk. She snapped up her head and wide-eyed zoned in on him.
Hunter flicked back his head, ‘Someone’s coppin’ an earful this morning from Ma’am,’ he started, and quickly halted his voice when he saw Grace nodding frantically in his direction. She was staring beyond him and giving him a sign which said ‘shut the door.’ He set the door to and held on to the handle. Knitting his eyebrows, in a low voice, he asked, ‘What’s up?’
‘Have you not heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘Tom Hagan’s attempted suicide.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, took an overdose. Last night. His brother found him. Apparently he popped round to see if he was alright after Tom told him about what had gone off, and that his wife’s found out and now she wants a divorce.’
Hunter dropped down onto his chair. ‘Shit.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Is he okay.’
‘As far as I know, but as you can guess, the proverbial’s hit the fan.’
He flicked his head backwards towards the door. ‘And is some flack coming our way.’
Grace shrugged her shoulders. ‘The Super popped her head in just before you arrived. She said she wants to see us both the minute you got in.’
Hunter scooted his chair out from beneath his desk. ‘Well if what I’ve just heard is a sample of her temper I suggest we put a book down the back of our trousers before we go in.’ Pushing himself up he added, ‘Do you know, a few minutes ago I was in such a good mood as well.’
Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate was slamming down the phone as Hunter and Grace stepped into her office. The door was open but Hunter rapped politely on the panel.
She lifted her head, offered a wan smile, beckoned them in and pointed out two chairs, next to the wall, for them to take.
She set her sight on Hunter. ‘You’ve heard about DC Hagan?’
Hunter nodded, ‘Grace has just filled me in.’
‘Professional Standards have rung me. They want to talk to you both.’ She ping-ponged her eyes between the detectives. ‘Today.’ She diverted her gaze to the phone. ‘I told them we’re up to our necks in a murder enquiry, but they insisted it had to be today.’ She huffed, ‘Apparently Tom Hagan’s DS is questioning our tactics. Thinks we could have made a better job of it.’ She threw up our hands. ‘As though it’s our fault that his wife left him and caused him to take an overdose.’ She shook her head. Her face was unusually flushed. ‘I’ve just finished with the supercilious prick on the phone. Given him a piece of my mind. I told him that what happened to DC Hagan is down to DC Hagan and not my officers. If he’d have kept his cock in his pants then he wouldn’t be in this predicament, and that if he’d have done his job properly as his supervisor, then his DC might not be looking at a charge of misconduct.’ She took a deep breath and sighed. ‘I guess he’ll want to make a complaint about me now, as well.’ She flattened her palms upon her desk and fanned out her fingers. She glanced at them for a few seconds and then returned her gaze to Hunter and Grace. With a resolute smile, she said, ‘Hey-ho, never mind. These things are sent to test us. Now let’s make sure all our bases our covered before Professional Standards get here.’
Hunter and Grace missed morning briefing. Detective Superintendent Leggate had given them the use of her office to confer notes and double-check documentation before ‘The rubber-heeled Squad,’ as all officers referred to them, arrived. Hunter already knew that the evidence, to justify the bringing in and interviewing of Tom Hagan, was good, yet nevertheless he and Grace went back over it, scrutinising their witness statements and forensic exhibits, and even checking that every report, certificate and legal instrument was correctly filled in. Hunter knew from experience that there was no room for error when under scrutiny by the ‘Discipline and Complaints Team,’ as they were normally called.
By 9.30 a.m. they had sifted through everything and talked over the likely format of their forthcoming interview. As they ended their scrum-down they met each other’s eyes and swapped tight-lipped smiles; despite their nervousness it was a reassuring look they exchanged.
A half an hour later they were called down to the Custody Suite.
They were to be interviewed separately. Hunter was first in.
Across the table in the soundproofed interview room Hunter faced two smartly suited detectives, who introduced themselves as Detective Superintendent Chambers and Detective Inspector Wilson. Even though he knew he had nothing to fear he could feel himself starting to sweat, and as the DI went through the preamble of informing him that ‘he wasn’t under arrest and that he could leave the interview at any time throughout the proceedings,’ he felt a knot tighten in his stomach.
For forty minutes Hunter was questioned, though surprisingly he felt that the nature of it was more informal than formal, and there were times when he found himself waiting for that sucker punch question. It never came. Although the two Senior Officers scrutinised the evidence of Adam Fields, and his friend on Manvers Terrace, who had placed Tom Hagan at Gemma Cooke’s house, most of the probing centred upon what his personal observations had been of the DC. Especially: ‘was there any time, either while he was interviewing him, or during his time in custody, did he express, or show any signs that he was going to commit himself harm.’
Unflinchingly, staring both Senior Officers in the face, Hunter answered, ‘No.’
After that the questioning was brought to a close. He was served with the customary ‘Regulation 9,’ notice of disciplinary proceedings and allowed to leave.
He left the room drained. Mentally and physically he was exhausted. As he trudged up the stairs back to the department he could feel a headache coming on.
Hunter walked into an empty office. He checked his watch. Lunchtime. He didn’t feel hungry. In fact, his guts were churning. And he didn’t feel like doing any work. Straightening his desk, he scribbled out two notes. He slid one across to where Grace sat, telling her he’d ring her later to see how it had gone. The second note he dropped onto DI Scaife’s blotter informing him that he was taking some time off. Then he left.
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER NINE
Day Eight: 25th March.
The minute Hunter got in he brought himself up to date by checking the incident board. There were no new revelations. Grace arrived ten minutes later looking slightly the worse for wear. Hunter guessed, that like he, she had slept very little. He offered her a smile and made them both a hot drink.
Placing a mug of steaming coffee before her, he said, ‘Sorry about not ringing you last night. I had a few hours with Beth and the lads and then went to bed early. I had a stinking migraine.’
‘Don’t worry, Hunter I didn’t feel too good myself. I shared a bottle of wine with Dave, let off some steam about the crap day I’d had and then hit the sack early myself.’
He sipped his tea. ‘Anyway how did it go?’
Grace gave him a blow-by-blow account of her interview with Professional Standards. He quickly learned that hers had followed an almost identical line of questioning.
Between them, as they finished their drinks, they came to the conclusion that Professional
Standards had merely been covering their ‘own backs;’ that their quick response would enable them to make ‘all the right noises’ when The Independent Police Complaints Commission came calling.
Their brief conversation had made them both feel better.
The day’s briefing was led by Detective Superintendent Leggate. She told the MIT team that nothing fresh had come in overnight to move the enquiry forward. She did update them on DC Tom Hagan’s condition. She informed everyone that there was no lasting damage and that he had been released from hospital. She finished by saying, ‘Despite what’s happened Tom Hagan is still a suspect.’
Beside her on the sofa, Linane Brazier’s mobile rang, making her jump and breaking her concentration. She threw aside the magazine she had been reading and scooped up her phone. The number that flashed up on screen was on her contacts list. She knew who this was, and glancing across the room, to where the clock was hung on the wall, she noted that her caller was two hours overdue.
Hitting the answer key she answered brightly, ‘Hi.’
On the other end of the line, in broken English, her friend and working partner Elisabeth Bertolutti said, ‘Linane, I’m so sorry, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me today. I’ve only just got in. I’ll tell you about it later.’
Unable to stop the pitch rising in her voice Linane asked, ‘Do you have it with you?’
In similarly excited fashion Elisabeth answered, ‘Yes, yes, I’m just unwrapping it now. Turn on your laptop, I’ll show it you.’
Trapping her mobile between her ear and shoulder, Linane hoisted herself off the sofa and rushed across to where her laptop sat on the breakfast bar. As she booted up her computer she listened to Elisabeth’s child-like voice ecstatically announce, ‘You’ll be so pleased when you see it. It’s far better than the photograph. It’s worth every penny.’
Eyes glued to the screen, anxiously tapping her French manicured nails upon the dark granite surface, Linane mentally willed the computer to go faster through its start-up process. She had been waiting all day for this. Ever since Elisabeth’s phone call that morning to say she’d bought the piece. After what seemed an eternity, but in reality was less than a minute, Linane’s screen appeared and she clicked open her web-cam browser. Quickly typing in her Skype account number and password, she brought up her contacts and saw that Elisabeth was already waiting on-line. She hung the cursor over her name and double-clicked again. A split-second later Elisabeth’s head and shoulders appeared on screen. A beaming smile lit up her face. In the background she recognised part of the lounge of the cottage they rented up north in Yorkshire.
Talking to the web-cam image Linane said, ‘Show me then,’
Her friend’s head and shoulders ducked away a second as she reached off-screen. Then, re-positioning herself back into view she held before her an oil painting. ‘Ta-dah,’ she exulted.
Linane’s eyes roamed every which way around the canvas. She was captivated by the mastery of the brushwork. She had to agree with her partner’s sentiments, even though her only view of it was through a computer screen, it certainly looked to be worth every penny of their investment. Cleaned up, she thought, this will make a handsome profit.
Unexpectedly, the painting dropped at one corner and she caught sight of her friends head, partially turned, looking back over her shoulder.
‘Just a minute, Linane, there’s someone at the door.’
She watched Elisabeth set the painting to one side, push herself away from the desk, rise from the antique Captain’s chair and step towards the front door.
Linane pressed her face towards the screen. Elisabeth’s image had become grainy in the distance. At that moment a strange sensation overtook her. It started as a tingling feeling in the base of her spine, which quickly shot up into her head and buzzed her ears; it felt as if she had been hooked up to a low voltage generator and it made her shudder. For a brief moment the room spun, and then everything seemed to close in on her and slow down, and she could feel all her senses heighten. She smelt things she hadn’t smelt before, and one of those smells was fear – her own fear. It made her call out, ‘Elisabeth, put the security chain on.’
Her warning came too late.
Before her eyes the door of their cottage swung sharply inwards, clattering hard against the wall. There was a resounding crack as the metal handle smashed against the plasterwork.
It made Linane jump.
A split-second later Elisabeth flew backwards into the room, arms flailing, trying to stop herself from hitting the dark wood sideboard, set against the far wall of their lounge. She barrelled into it with such force that it scattered two Rockingham Pottery ‘blue ware’ plates, they had recently bought from an antiques fair. One of them broke before it hit the floor. The replica Tiffany lamp went next, toppling over the side, its cord saving it from hitting the deck.
In through the open door followed a tall, dark-clad intruder. In a flash, that raider was clawing at Elisabeth’s throat, pressing her hard against the sideboard, lifting her off her feet.
Linane froze, eyes transfixed to her laptop, watching in horror as the dark invader launched Elisabeth over the back of sofa, dumping her to the floor. She saw the intruder vault after her friend, landing on top.
A strident, pain-filled, shriek exploded from Elisabeth’s mouth, jarring Linane’s ears.
In the eerie half-light, cast by the swinging table-lamp, Linane saw something glint. She realised what it was. Her heart raced. Simultaneously bile leapt up from her stomach and into her throat. It stung and gagged her, stopping her screaming out another warning.
The monster had a knife.
Linane’s stomach muscles tensed as she witnessed the first thrust. The action was repeated; again and again. And in a few seconds she lost count of the number of times she saw the knife plunge into Elisabeth’s torso. She was amazed that her friend didn’t cry out. All Linane could hear was the sucking sound of the blade being yanked out after each fresh stabbing.
The attack stopped almost as quickly as it had started. And it was at that stage that Linane came to her senses. Although her insides were churning and she felt faint she knew had to do something. She snatched her eyes away from her screen and searched out her mobile. It was only a few yards away. As she was about to reach out and grab it, at the periphery of her vision a sharp movement caught her attention. She snapped her eyes back upon the screen. The dark-clad killer was standing in the centre of the lounge, slowly roaming his head around. She thought she heard him chanting numbers, counting them backwards. He stopped when he spotted their computer. And that’s when she caught a proper view of Elisabeth’s murderer; until now his features had been in shadow. Her legs wobbled and she had to grab hold of the granite work surface to stop herself from collapsing. Into view came the most hideously masked face she had ever seen.
She slunk back sharply, knocking aside her phone.
The masked-killer stepped forwards and leaned in, pressing his face closer, taking up the whole of the screen.
Once more Linane froze, her hand covering her mouth. She couldn’t say a word. Not even issue a cry.
Without warning a muffled voice boomed ‘Boo!’ out through the speakers.
Elisabeth’s heart leapt against her chest.
Then in deep gravelly tones the mask said, ‘Coming, ready or not.’
It was at that stage she let out a piercing scream.
By the end of the afternoon Hunter still had his head buried in his hands. Except for the occasional stroll across the room to make a hot drink he had been desk-bound for most of the day, sifting back over evidence and reading through statements. He had even tediously listened back through the tape recordings of the interviews with Adam Fields and DC Tom Hagan to check he hadn’t missed anything. As he chewed another lump of plastic off his decimated Biro top his thoughts became distracted. The last case the team had worked on had been complicated by the fact that former detectives had been involved in a very complex web of deceit.
Now, in this latest investigation, there was the distinct possibility that one of their own might be a murderer. And, although Tom Hagan had given them a timeframe of when he had left Gemma’s house and returned to his own home, it could not be corroborated. Therefore, he had no alibi. Things were not boding well for the PPU Detective. He knuckle-rubbed his temples and lifted his head, setting his eyes across the desk where his partner Grace also had her head buried in her hands, eyes drilling her own paperwork.
He was about to suggest they take a break and grab something to eat when the office doors clattered open. Hunter whipped round his head catching sight of Tony Bullars storming into the room. At mid-chest he was thrusting out his mobile.
Catching his breath he blurted, ‘My girlfriend’s on the phone. She says her friend’s just been stabbed! Uniform are on their way to her cottage. We need to go.’ He swallowed hard.
Hunter sprung himself out of his chair. ‘Bully, slow down, you’re not making sense. What are you on about?’
He took several deep breaths. ‘My girlfriend Linane has just phoned me. She’s staying down in Richmond. She says that her friend, who she shares a cottage with in Street, has just been stabbed. She was Skyping her and saw it happen.’ He aimed a finger at his mobile. ‘She’s rung me a few minutes ago. It’s only just happened. I’ve contacted Communications and they’re sending the response car. We need to get over there.’
Hunter threw his gaze back to Grace. Her eyes were wide open, engaging his and she was already pushing herself up from her desk. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and snatched up the car keys.
Within minutes of screeching away from the rear compound Hunter was swinging the unmarked police car onto the main arterial road, which connected onto the Dearne Valley Parkway bypass – the fastest route to the tiny hamlet of Street. There were still the last dregs of rush hour traffic on the road, but that didn’t deter or slow his driving, and many of his jockeying manoeuvres left behind a wake of cars breaking sharply, their drivers blasting their horns, and some making rude hand gestures, as he sped past. At Elsecar he pulled off the main road and continued driving at breakneck speed along the stretches of country lanes towards the tiny hamlet of Street.
Coming, Ready or Not Page 9
